


After Eights

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Eat, review, love [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Angst, Chef Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Fluff, Food Critic Castiel (Supernatural), John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Panic, Romance, Writer Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-02-07 09:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18617752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: The one where (freaking-finally) happy Chef Dean Winchester has enough on his plate between his upcoming wedding (!), guest starring on millennialasshats.com and the waiting list for his restaurant, without the one thing that could send him back into the closet showing up out of nowhere.(John-goddamn-Winchester.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Honestly, I'm not entirely sure what prompted this being written.... Maybe I saw some speculation about an episode that was due to happen? I'm like over a season behind on supernatural, so I have no idea anymore. BUT --- it happened.
> 
> This is going to be a little less light in places, but you should still be treated to some fluff, food, and Dean!panic. All the good things :)

Cas has this expression of pinched concentration that makes Dean want to break into spontaneous freaking _cookery_ because it’s so goddamn cute.

They’ve been doing this for a long time, now. Probably a little less time than Dean ever _thought_ it could take to be completely fucking send-invites-to-the-printers committed, but when Cas is frowning at his laptop like it personally insulted him it just about figures. Cas is freaking _gorgeous_ and beautiful and frustrating and challenging and wonderful and all the goddamn rest and that’s just how it is.

“Dude, you’ve been staring at that damn screen for half an episode of masterchef. If you need another way of saying you wanna bone me for the column, then you just gotta ask.”

“This quiz says that if I was a condiment, I would be mayonnaise. I do not identify with mayonnaise.” 

“ _This_ is how you’re spending our Friday evening?” Dean asks, his second beer of the evening balanced on his thigh as he looks at his fiance (!) and ignores whatever the crap the TV is spouting about slow cooking beef cheek. “ _Our_ Friday.”

“Mayonnaise is not an accurate representation of my identity.”

Dean snorts into his beer and reaches for the TV remote, switching the damn thing off and leaning into Cas’ space. Friday nights not at work are still a goddamn novelty, even if his work-life boundaries are about six hundred times better than when he met Cas (as in, he actually has a life _and_ work), but somehow the rota wound up with him clocking off after the lunch service and waiting for Cas to be done with his remote-editing-shtick so that they can _Friday_ , together. Date night style.

“Wanna make out?” Dean asks, nudging Cas with his knee to get some freaking attention. 

“Did we regress to our hornier teenaged selves?”

“Which answer gets you to quit being obsessing about mayonnaise and freaking kiss me?”

“I need to finish this quiz.”

“You’re picking some dumbass Facebook quiz over some quality necking? Wow, Cas.”

“It’s not a Facebook quiz,” Cas says, “It is _my quiz_.”

“Wait, you failed your own quiz?” Dean asks, leaning over a little further to squint as his laptop screen, using the opportunity to edge further into Cas’s space just to absorb a little of his warmth and Cas-ness. “Since when did you write quizzes anyway?”

“One of our writers has flu,” Cas says, “We split her workload, and I conceded to completing her ‘what condiment are you’ quiz because I _believed_ it would be easy, but now — _I am mayonnaise_.”

“Yeah, I don’t got a damn thing to say about that,” Dean says, then rolls it round in his head, “Do me.” 

“After I’ve finished work, perhaps,” Cas says, without looking up from his screen.

“The quiz, asshole, what condiment am I?”

“Dean,” 

“Hey, this is better than masterchef, and when was the last time I had a Friday night off?”

“Fine,” Cas says, with a barely-there smile, a soft edge to his gaze that Dean knows means Cas is finding the whole thing pretty damn funny. “You feel undermined by your boss at work. Do you: A, quit due to your underlying issues with authority; B, express your negative feelings to your boss; C, silently fume and wallow in your frustration before downloading your feelings very loudly at a bar that your boss also frequents. Or D, channel Taylor Swift and ‘shake it off’ , because your career is not worth all your life’s attention and you have a degree of expectation around your boss undermining you due to both low self esteem and minimal commitment to your work.”

“Well,” Dean says, “I _am_ the freaking boss. Quitting kind of fucks me over —- uh, guess I do have authority issues, but I’m also pretty damn good at sucking it up —-”

“Dean, pick an answer.” 

“Cas, forget it and kiss me,”

“You said you wanted to know what condiment you were.” 

“Fine,” Dean says, “I pick A. And we can _multi-task_.”

Cas shifts just so to expose his the column of his throat, then directs his gaze resolutely at his computer screen. Dean sets his beer on the floor because _game fucking on._

“Was your childhood: A, a source of much conversation in ongoing therapy due to severe tragedy, neglect, or personal trauma,” Cas says, cold dead serious. Dean’s face quirks up into a smile because, yeah, that’s exactly the kind of earnestly serious question Cas _would_ put in a quiz about goddamn condiments. “B, an idyllic source of nostalgia and embarrassing childhood photographs; C, a bittersweet combination of pain and truly happy moments; or, D, uneventful.”

“Not _light_ mayonnaise, then,” Dean says, shifting close enough that he’s pretty much sat on Cas’ lap under the pretence of skipping ahead in Cas’ quiz.

“So, A.”

“You’re kind of a smart ass,” Dean throws back, squinting at the rest of Cas’ questions. “Okay…. B, D… , A, D and B. What am I?”

“Other than infuriating?” Cas says, the furrow in his brow deepening as he writes down Dean’s responses. “You are,” Cas says, before sighing deeply. “Mayonnaise.”

“What?”

“I have definitely fucked this up.”

Dean snorts into his neck and kisses the spot under his neck.

“You’re cute though.”

“I, there must be something wrong with my math.” Cas says, frowning at his laptop for a few long seconds, before, “This quiz is _an abomination_ of journalism. Whoever commissioned this is an imbecile.”

“Dude, you’re the editor.” 

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Castiel says, shutting his laptop with a decisive click, “It is inconceivable to me that you could be so something _unremarkable_ as mayonnaise. You are… _smokey barbeque_. Surprising and sweet and strong and hot. You have layers and nostalgia.”

“Someone _really_ needs to teach you how to talk dirty,” Dean grins, as Cas’ curls a hand around the back of his neck to pull him for a kiss that they’re both still smirking through. 

_Smokey-freaking-barbeque_. 

*

It’s after some pretty A grade sex that it really hits him that his life is the goddamn best, and it’s only partially because sex with Cas has always been freaking amazing.

It’s more because Cas writes dumbass quizzes about condiments and knows all of Dean’s bullshit, and still balls up making breakfast in bed every damn Sunday. It’s because they fall into the rhythm of breathing with each other, still curled into each other’s space like they’re not done with each other yet. It’s because he really, really couldn’t give a flying fuck that Cas is a dude with dude parts because as it happens said dude parts are _the best_ and are attached to pretty much his favourite person in the universe, and to hell with what anyone else thinks about that. Cas is awesome .

Dean’s looking at him — one of those chick flick, long, intimate stares that Dean didn’t think actually happened in real life — as Cas’ mouth crinkles into a smile. They don’t talk about how they feel about each other much. Not out loud. They declare affection through breakfasts and chores and excessive birthday presents, but now seems like kind of the moment that Dean should break the easy silence to say something profound.

_Goddamn I’m happy. I love you. You’re sixteen hundred times better than damn mayonnaise._

Cas shifts to rest on his elbow to speak. 

“I’m hungry,” Cas declares, voice an advert for post coital bliss and so, so hot. Dean rolls into his side of the bed and smiles at the ceiling. Cas is freaking perfect. 

“I ain’t cooking,” 

“Dean,” Cas says, turning those baby blues in his direction and pouting at him. It’s _cute_ , but this routine is well worn enough that Dean has some immunity to his puppy dog eyes. “I’m hungry.” 

“No goddamn way, Cas.” 

“Fine,” Cas says, sitting up and stretching, with all those inexplicable runners muscles and that arch in his spine, bare ass naked. “I think I have some ramen somewhere.” 

And Cas knows full _damn well_ he can’t abide by goddamn ramen. 

“Pain in the ass,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and sitting up too, pulling on the nearest pair of boxers (Cas’), “What do you want?”

“Carbohydrates,” Cas says, very seriously, “I need to recuperate my energy after fucking you into saying my full name three times.”

“You count now?”

“It’s like a performance rating.”

“Smart ass,” Dean says, “Chicken mayo sandwich? What? You got mayonnaise in my head.”

“It’s not the same if you aren’t going to make it.” 

“Dude, the hell am I spending my Friday night making goddamn mayo. There’s a reason people started bottling it.” 

“What’s the point of marrying a chef if your condiments still come in bottles?”

“Don’t even make the crap at my own restaurant, Dude, even Garth delegates freaking mayo. Anyway , there’s not a whole lot in.”

“You bought groceries today.” 

“Not a lot of groceries,”

“The fridge is full.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Of bottled condiments, apparently.”

“Did you buy something sentimental and surprising for Sunday?” Cas asks, leaning closer to inspect his expression, one of the cute-as-hell smiles playing at the corners of his mouth. And, anyway, it’s not necessarily a _sentimental_ thing. He doesn’t exactly get to cook properly most of the week because it’s so damn busy. They eat restaurant leftovers and Cas’ cooking attempts (he’s recently started a blog series where he recreates all the recipes that feature in Queer Eye, which is probably why the guy has got mayonnaise on the goddamn brain) and scrubbed togethered meals that Dean can put together in thirty minutes or less. They taste _good_ , but it’s not that same as labouring over a joint; roasting vegetables; marinating crap to make it freaking delicious and special. He’s not going to _deny_ that he doesn’t freaking love cooking _for Castiel_ , but it’s also… practical. Good to keep his chef muscles intact. An opportunity to keep his food muse fed. 

And, maybe, more often than not he cooks Cas’ favourite foods, or things he’s mentioned off hand during the week, or things Dean knows his mother used to cook, but that does _not_ mean he’s a goddamn sap.

“No,” Dean says, slumping back into their bed, half smiling at the ceiling.

“Dean,” 

“Didn’t buy you anything, Cas.”

“I’m going to find what’s in the fridge.”

“Bring me back some ramen,” Dean calls after him, eyes shut as his thoughts shift back to marinating in how goddamn _happy_ he is. 

Cas comes back all bright eyed and freaking adorable.

“You’re cooking lobster,” Cas smiles, “I didn’t know you could cook lobster.”

“Worked in one of those douchey ass pretentious restaurants for years Cas, you bet I can cook you a lobster that’s so damn good you’ll say my full name three times.”

“It’s my favourite seafood,”

“I know.”

“Dean Winchester, you are adorable and enigmatic and beautiful.” 

“I know,” Dean says, without a hint of that age old seasoning of shame, or cringing away from the compliment, as Cas sits on the edge of the bed just to lean forward and kiss him and, hey, his life really does not suck.

*

Bobby calls in the middle of service, which is unusual as hell. Most of the time, Bobby waits for Dean to call (and gives him hell for taking his sweet time about it too) and if he _does call_ he’s taken to ringing on the Sunday evenings that he knows for sure that Dean doesn’t work. This is a Saturday lunch shift, which is a damned inconvenient time for Charlie to be sending Tim the kitchen hand into the fray with Dean’s phone on loudspeaker.

“Will _someone_ get me some damn fries?” Dean demands, “This point I don’t give a damn where they come from, as long as they’re hot and freaking delicious, so if it’s gonna be quicker for you to piss off to McDonald’s than cook it yourself then get to it -”

“Two minutes, Chef —“

“ - You said that four minutes ago, Walters, come on. They’re freaking fries. Garth, for the love of all that is holy will you please —-”

“On it, Deano,”

“ _Chef_ ,” Dean corrects.

“On it, Chef Deano.”

“Bobby, I’m in the weeds here —” Dean says, and it’s almost an under exaggeration. He wound up running late (thanks to Cas and his freaking adorable bedhead, obviously) and he hasn’t managed to regain his momentum since. They’re full of large parties with the crappiest version of his brigade due to a whole load of shift-swapping, and even Charlie seemed to decide it wasn’t the best time to hound Dean about the freaking _feature_ for Cas’ paper she blackmailed him into agreeing to and left him to it. It is _really_ not a good time for him to be talking to his pseudo-father in the middle of service. The only thing it’s a good time for, right now, is some fucking _fries_. ”I can call you back the second service is done — “

“- Dean,” Bobby says, voice grave enough that Dean freezes in the middle of the kitchen for a few long seconds before Walters smacks into him with a scoldingly hot plate of fries.

“Sonuva —“

“— Dean,” Kevin says, looking at him from the meat section, “We got this. Take your call.” 

“— Bobby,” Dean says, after he’s snatched his phone off Tim, stepped out of the kitchen and been hit by a wall of cold air that’s everything he’s ever wanted. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”

“More or less,” Bobby says, with an edge to his voice that Dean doesn’t like at all.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks, voice sharper now as he steps into his and Charlie’s office.

“Your Dad just showed up.”

The words reverberate round his head for a long time before they start to make any kind of sense. 

“What do you _mean_ Dad showed up?” Dean asks, voice catching in the back of his throat. 

“Just drove right up my damn drive and knocked on the door.”

“I —- what? _Dad?”_

“He wants to see you, boy, you and your brother. Wants you to fly out here as soon as you can to _tell you somethin’._ Just giving you a heads up before he springs it on you out of the damned blue.”

“I … okay,” Dean swallows, slamming his eyes shut. His _father_. John-freaking-Winchester. “Tell us _what_?”

“Damned if I know,” Bobby says, “Didn’t want you coming off your shift to a voicemail, or I’d have called you later.” 

“I --- no, that’s, good,” Dean manages, jaw tightening.

_Your Dad just showed up_.

“Don’t go doing anything dumb, y’idjit,” Bobby says.

“Roger that,” Dean mutters, “Bobby I --- I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to Sam. I --- thanks for the heads up.”

_John Winchester_. 

“I’ll call someone in to cover your shift,” Charlie says, all business, before Dean can say a damn word, let alone process what the hell just happened. 

“Charlie, it’s --- it’s a Saturday, we gotta - “

“No can do, Winchester,” Charlie says, voice firm, “Do you, uh, want me to call Cas?”

“I - no,” Dean says, sitting down heavily. John Winchester. John _freaking_ Winchester. 

_Maybe your brother sold out his family, but at least he did it to do something worthwhile with his time._

He’s got six texts from Cas, as it turns out, mostly him sending Dean inane updates about his day that he knew full well Dean wouldn’t answer until after his shift is over, but the last one says that he’s been called into the cafe by Gabriel after four people called in sick with the same virus. “I can,” Dean begins, but he actually _can’t_ , because he doesn’t know what in the hell he’s supposed to do with the news that John Winchester is freaking _back_.

He doesn’t even know where he’s back _from_. Not really sure if what he’s feeling right now is relief, or shock, or dread. Probably all three. He accepted a long damn time ago that John Winchester could be dead in a ditch somewhere and they’d never freaking find out about it and, fuck, of course he’s goddamn _relieved_ that he’s not, but --- that doesn’t mean that he wants to actually _see him_ Maybe. He doesn't really know what John being back _means_. What could possibly have happened after X years for him to show the fuck up at Bobby’s like nothing ever happened?

_You listen to Dad’s music, wear Dad’s leather jacket, drive Dad’s car, do whatever Dad says, Dean. Why should I listen to you when the only damn thing you do is suck up to the guy who dumped us here and left us to rot?_

“I - need to get out of here,” Dean mutters, lump in the back of his throat as he sheds off his chef whites. Charlie nods like she’s actually proud of him for being intune enough with his damn feelings to know that he absolutely _can’t_ work right now, and that he needs to see Cas, stat, because he needs a goddamn hug. “Okay, I --- ”

“--- I’ll handle it,” Charlie says, with a hand on his arm, “Out, now, Dean.”

He winds up at Gabriel’s cafe much quicker than he should’ve done, really, but he’s pretty freaking sure that a speeding fine would be _worth it_ right now, because he needs, he needs --- 

What the _fuck_ is John going to say about Cas?

“Dean,” Cas says, looking up from delivering some student coffee, his mouth crinkling into a smile before dipping into concern when he takes him in properly. Dean would have been a mess even if he _hadn’t_ just got a call from Bobby about his Dad, because the kitchen’s been a hotbed of disasters all damn morning and it’s been _actually_ hot, too. Dean’s pretty fucking disgusting right now, but, well, Cas is pretty much used it at this point, and ---- 

And Dean needs a goddamn _hug_. 

Cas curves a hand around his back and clings onto him like he always does, and a sudden rush of oxygen finally makes it to his lungs. 

Okay. 

Ok _ay_

John Winchester. 

“Dean,” Cas says, pulling him towards a spare table and sitting him down, “What’s wrong?”

Dean shakes his head and runs the words over in his head a few more times. John Winchester is _back_. And he wants to talk to them about something. _Something_ which sounds ominous as hell from a guy that Dean half grieved and half hated for fucking off into the ether years ago and…. And _what is he going to say about Cas_?

“I’ll get you some pie.”

_Mary had better things to do with her time than make you pie, Dean._

“I - no,” Dean says, and that appears to be enough to impress the seriousness of the situation on Cas, who’s eyebrows arch alarmingly towards his forehead. 

“Dean, is Sam -?”

“No, yeah, Sam is fine,” Dean bites out, draws in another breath, “So, Bobby called and, uh, turns out my Dad just showed up in Sioux falls.”

“Your father?” Cas asks, his words sharp.

“Yep,” Dean says, “Just parked up outside and rang the damn doorbell, apparently. Wants to --- he wants us to fly out there and _talk to him_ about something. He, well, he’s _alive_ , apparently, and --- sittin’ in Bobby’s kitchen shooting the shit about the better part of the last decade.”

“Is Charlie --?”

“Yeah, she’s sorting the restaurant,”

“Okay,” Cas says, nodding, “I will speak to Gabriel and we can go home -”

“No,” Dean says, swallowing again, “It’s -- I gotta go speak to Sammy, but I, uh, just wanted to see you. Check in.”

“Dean, Gabriel can manage without me - ”

“- Cas, you’ve got better things to do than babysit me having a damn meltdown.”

“No,” Cas says, very firmly, “I don’t.

_It's nothing to do what Dad did or didn't think, or where he is. It's in spite of those things. You are successful, at something you love and are good at. Of course Mom wouldn't have thought that was a waste of time._

Dean looks at him in his dumbass apron, with his eyes achingly serious and achingly blue, and ---

Yeah, okay. Dean can have this. He can have this.

“‘Kay,” Dean says, the words sticking in the back of his throat, “Let’s… let’s go home.”

*

Dean cooks a meatloaf he remembers cooking for John Winchester when he was sixteen years old, and it isn’t till he’s sat down across from Cas and Sam and taken a bite that he realises its the worst thing he’s goddamn cooked since he met Cas. It’s under seasoned and over cooked and overwrought and Cas takes one bite before he sets his cutlery down and says _‘Dean’_ like he can read Dean’s emotional bullshit off the plate. 

He exhales and pushes his plate away. Dinner was suppose to take the edge of the weight of this conversation. The conversation after Dean ignored their Dad’s first call in the foyer of Sam’s office, the voicemail and the text that came in after that asking Dean to call him ‘as soon as he got this’. The conversation that is the reason that Dean has a Saturday night off right after a Friday night off, and the reason that Sam isn’t at one of Jess’ friends birthday dinners. 

“All right,” Dean says, pausing to take a swig of beer to chase away the bile rising up in his throat. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Dean, I’m _not_ flying out there,” Sam says, arms folded over his chest in a serious throwback to Sam’s teenage years that Dean really doesn’t want to freaking repeat. “If Dad wants to _talk_ to us --”

“-- Sam, I’m not disagreeing with you here. You think I wanna drop everything and get on a plane? I’m just sayin’ we need a goddamn strategy rather than just digging in our heals ---”

“- I’m not being steamrolled by him.” 

“Got no damn idea _why_ you think I’m just gonna lie down and print welcome on my forehead.”

“Because, Dean, I _remember_ our whole childhood.”

“ _Fuck you_ , Sam, I was a freaking kid.”

“I _know_ ,” Sam says, checking himself and sighing, “I _know_ , Dean, and you are totally different person now than you are then, I just don’t want you to _slip back_ into being that guy -”

“- not _gonna happen_ , Sam, as long as _you_ don’t turn into that stubborn, hot headed teenager who goes looking for a damn fight with Dad for the goddamn sake of it.”

“Okay,” Sam exhales, “Okay, Dean, you’re right.”

“Damn straight I’m right, Sam,” Dean says, taking a steady breath to push back the six hundred memories of _yessirs_ and _okay Dads_ and _whatever didn’t rock the goddamn boat_ , because his whole life is different now. He is not the same. He is _not_ that Dean Winchester anymore. He’s actually, honest to god, happy. 

He put _John’s choice_ on the menu. Double beef burger, blue cheese, mushroom. 

“Okay,” Dean says, “So, we invite him here.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Sam, if we’re not going there, we’ve got to meet him halfway.”

“Technically, halfway would be somewhere in Utah,” Cas says, his knee brushing against Dean’s under the kitchen table. He’s the only one who’s still eating, like his commitment to Dean stretches to consumption of bad food. Dean’s more grateful that he knows how to put into words.

“Cas, not the time.”

“Lay off my fiancee .” Dean snaps, “Sam, we have to talk to him.”

“No we don’t,”

“I’m not saying we have to listen, but —- fuck, we have no idea what he’s gonna say. It could be _anything_. I’m not your real father, I’m dying of cancer, I’m secretly a damn drag queen - I’m _not_ not knowing.”

“If he won’t come here…?”

“Then we ask if he can tell us over the damn phone, or we give him a date in a month’s time when we can arrange flying out and, if that isn’t acceptable, then…. then it’s not worth hearing.”

“Okay,” Sam agrees, heavily, picking up his fork and contemplating his meatloaf for a few long moments.“We should call him now.”

“I’ll do it,” 

“Why?”

“Because you’ll get pissed,” Dean says, “You can ride his ass about taking off when he’s here, Sam.”

“If he even comes,” 

“Case and freaking _point_ ,” Dean says, reaching for his phone and sucking in another breath. He….

Fuck. He can’t believe they’re goddamn doing this.

_John Winchester._

Cas reaches forward and takes hold of his other hand. It’s one of the most gratuitously affectionate things that Cas has done in front of his brother. Sam’s seen them kiss and sit too close on the sofa, sure, but…. Dean would swear to his deathbed that he isn’t a _hand holding_ type. It’s archetype cutesy couple. It’s second-grade ‘dating’. It’s really freaking helpful at this exact moment. 

Dean hits dial. 

His everything clenches as it starts to ring, and there’s a moment when it seems like it’s going to go to voicemail where his adrenaline spikes so hard he squeezes Cas’ hand impossibly tightly for something to do with all his damn feelings — and then he picks up.

_He picks up the fucking phone_. 

“Dean,” He says and, holy shit, that’s John Winchester. John Winchester on the goddamn phone, like he’s not some phantom shadow of issues that’s been dangling for his whole adult life. Dean made peace with not getting a resolution or, at least, he thought he had.

“Hey, Dad,” Dean says, jaw squared , “I - good to talk to you.”

He doesn’t even know if he’s lying.

“You too, son,” He says, and the words jar in his head. He’s used to hearing _son_ from Bobby, not…. Not their dad. Not from the same voice that said _I wouldn’t have given her to you if I knew you weren’t going to look after her; she’s not some cheap car rental, Dean_. 

“Look, me and Sammy can’t fly out there this week. I’ve got — Sam’s got a big case on and I’m needed at the restaurant, but —- you can come here”

“Uhuh,” John says, voice dangerous and, shit. “So. You’re both too busy with work—”

“— you give us enough notice, we can be in Sioux Falls, but this week isn’t gonna happen, Dad. If you wanna talk to us , come here and we can make the time. Me and C ---”Dean begins, his voice tripping up on the words because _what’s John Winchester going to say about Castiel?_. Dean swallows. Cas’ hand is warm and reassuring in his and Dean’s hasn’t got a fucking clue what their father is going to do with that. Not a damn clue. “Me and… I’ve got a spare room. So has Sam. We can,” Dean begins, that familiar sickening feeling of shame closing up his windpipe. _Me and Cas have a spare room. Me and Cas, the dude love of my life and soon to be husband, have a spare room._ “We’ll… we’ll work it out.” 

Dean is goddamn food poisoning. 

“I don’t know, Dean,” John says, “It seems you’re very _busy_.”

Fucking _A_.

“Chances are, Dad, we’re gonna need to work,” Dean says, chest pounding, head spinning, “We’ve both got responsibilities, but we can make the time to talk to you about whatever it is, we just can’t fly out to you. We can’t do it. That’s,” Dean says, shutting his eyes, _yessir, okay Dad_ , “That’s the best we can do right now.”

“Okay,” John says, a gruffness that reminds him a little of Bobby, but without some of the warmth, “I’ll think about it.”

*

Dean’s loading the last of the shitty meatloaf dishes into the dishwasher when Cas says, out of the goddamn blue, “If your father comes to stay, I will go and stay at Gabriel’s” as if he’s doing Dean some kind of fucking _favour_. 

“What?” Dean asks, turning around to look at him with enough of _something_ in his voice that Cas has read that Dean’s not about to jump for joy over the suggestion. “Why the hell would you do that?” Dean asks, and then it starts to dawn on him. “You think I’m gonna jump back in the fucking closet. After all this time, you think the first chance I get I’ll be high tailing it to goddamn Nania —”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice pained, “I am trying to help.”

“No, Cas, you’re trying to make up my damn mind for me, and it’s bullshit.”

“Coming out to your father should be a choice.”

“But it _ain’t,_ Cas, and that’s because of _him_. It’s not got a damn thing to do with you, or me. When I made a decision to come out the goddamn closet, he wasn’t in the equation, but I _am_ out and there’s no way in hell I can rearrange my life to get myself back in.” Dean says, voice picking up volume. 

Even if he _wanted to_ , he couldn’t retreat into his overcompensating heterosexual routine. It’s done. All the family who stuck around know, his friends know, his staff know. After his pride menu, half the damn internet knows, even if it was an excuse to actually get out of going to the goddamn parade ( the menu seemed the only damn way to get Charlie to drop it; plus, it gave him a chance to put the both ways bisexual burger back on the menu, and an overly zealous toxic masculinity burger which sold in crazy numbers). Between some California based gay magazine that Dean didn’t know existed featuring his pride efforts, Cas publicly writing about their relationship in his column and his blog every other day, and the fact that in two week he’s conceded to that feature interview at Cas’ paper, it’s not exactly something he could fold away and hide. And, _he doesn’t want to._ He doesn’t want to. 

_Me and Cas have a spare room._.

“I know,” Castiel says, forcefully , “I am _trying_ to be sensitive to that fact.”

“Bull-fucking-shit.” 

“You care about what your father thinks about this.”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean says, “But that’s a problem with my relationship with my goddamn father, not a problem in _our relationship_.”

“Dean. Stop yelling.” 

“No, Cas, I’m pissed off. I can’t believe you would think I’d want you to take off for my own freaking good.”

“For _a few days_ , Dean. I have no intention of disappearing permanently.”

“So, your plan is that we pretend to be goddamn roommates any time my dad is around?”

“I want you to have the opportunity to do this in _your own time_.” Cas says, achingly freaking patient in a way that trips every single one of Dean’s nerves. This is the last conversation he needs to be having right now. This is the _last thing_ that he wants to deal with at this moment. He wants to crawl into his goddamn bed and retreat into the circle of Cas’ arms and try and pretend none of this is happening. He doesn’t want them to _fight_ , but -- 

“This is you deciding what I am and am not okay with again, and I thought we were through with that shit.” Dean bites out, shutting the dishwasher with force.

“I don’t know why you’re reacting like this,” 

“Because, damnit Castiel, I _need you_ more than I’ve ever needed you in my whole freaking life right now, and you’re offering to take off like you’re doing me a favour. I _cannot do this_ without you and I’m sorry if that means I’m not out enough for you , because that’s it . That’s how I feel. No, okay, if you weren’t in the picture, waving my damn pride flag the second my dad showed up wouldn’t be my top freaking priority —- but, fuck, Cas, we’re getting _married_ and — fuck, I need some air. I — I’m gonna take a walk.”

“Dean,” Cas says, expression pulled into a frown and, fuck, he _wants_ to stay and hash this out, but Cas is being so goddamn reasonable, and Dean can’t deal with that right now. He needs some time. He needs some air. He needs to process that Cas is trying to help, even if he’s misguided and freaking ridiculous. He needs _air_ and ---

He needs to talk to Bobby. He really needs to talk to Bobby.

“ _Don’t_ go anywhere.”

“If you _want_ me to stay then ---”

“ -- yes, I want you to goddamn stay,” Dean says, fingers closing around his car keys, “I need you, damnit.”

Cas, all blue eyed and miserable, nods at him.

*

He calls Bobby from the front seat of the impala. 

“Bobby,” Dean says, voice taunt in his throat. “Is he with you?” He hasn’t had trouble getting words out for over a goddamn year and he didn’t really want it to happen now, because… because _everything_ is different, now. Dean is in control of his whole damn life and he freaking loves it: Cas, Sam, his restaurant, his staff, his memory foam freaking mattress. Hell, he’s happy with his relationship with his damn bank manager at this point in the game. Things are _good_.

It shouldn’t be possible for him to be floored by something like this anymore. 

“No,” Bobby says, short, “Your Daddy’s doing a beer run and, no, I don’t have a damn clue what it is he wants to talk to you boys about, but I think you refusin’ to fly out here is a damn good decision, son.”

_Bobby calls him son_.

“If he… if he flies out here, you coming too?”

“Like hell I’d miss it,” Bobby grouses.

“What’s he gonna say about Cas?” Dean breathes, tightening his grip on his steering wheel even though he doesn’t have a single intention of driving anywhere. He’s going to go right back up to their apartment and talk to his goddamn life-partner, he just needs some _space_ first. 

Bobby takes a long moment before he says anything. 

“Got no damned idea,” Bobby sighs, “Doubt he’s gonna have much good to say about it.”

“Last time Dad said something good about something I did I was freaking thirteen, Bobby, I’m not _looking_ for him to wave a damn pride flag, I know I’m a goddamn disappointment, I just…. I got no idea what he’s gonna do.”

“ _Do_?”

“I,” Dean swallows, “Bobby.”

“Be pretty damn surprised if he’d worked it out himself,”

“No shit,” Dean mutters, “Doubt Dad could name a single freaking one of high school girlfriends, let alone pick up that I dug Harrison Ford.”

Bobby snorts. 

“I just,” Dean begins, rolling the words around in his head, “I wanna know if he’s gonna take off.” “John does whatever the hell John wants, boy, that’s not on you.”

“And you know that for sure?”

“I aint a damn mind reader, no,” Bobby says, “But I’m pretty damn sure, as big of pain in the ass you are, that you aint done anything worthy of his goddamn disappearing act and, hell boy, even if you punched him in the damn face and called him out on his shit, he’s the damn parent and it’s _his_ responsibility to deal with _your shit_ and --- what exactly do you _mean_ ‘disappointment’?” 

_Mary had better things to do with her time than make you pie, Dean._

“Dad,” Dean says, through gritted teeth, “Thinks cooking is a waste of time.”

“Damned idjit,” Bobby mutters, “Your _Dad_ thinks anything he personally sucks at is a damn waste of time, don’t mean that he’s ever been right.”

“He doesn’t think Sam’s wasting his life. He didn’t _like_ it, but he respected it.”

“Well then he’s a goddamn idjit,” Bobby scoffs, “You gonna make me tell you that I’m damn proud of you twice in one year, Princess?”

“No,” Dean says, “I know, Bobby, I just -- fuck.”

“Aint gonna insult you by pointing out that we’re all on your side.”

“I know,” Dean says, breathes, “And, damnit Bobby, logically I don’t give a flying fuck about what he has to say about any of it. _You’re_ damn opinion is worth sixteen of his and I _know_ that you just want whatever the hell it is that makes me happy, and that’s how it _should_ be, but --- he’s my damn _father_ , Bobby, and I just don’t wanna be the reason that he fucks off again for another half a decade, but I can’t --- I can’t, I can’t take a step backwards. I can’t do it.”

“Damned straight.”

“If he can’t deal with Cas, then… that’s it.” 

“Your boy’s a grumpy sonuvabitch, but he sure can write a blistering review,” Bobby says, “And it sure seems like you think the sun shines out of his ass, so he gets my vote, if it comes down to it.”

“I --- thanks, Bobby,”

“And you bet your ass that Sam’ll throw his lot in with Castiel.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders as he shuts his eyes. As a math equation, it’s pretty obvious. John Winchester is the one with the potential problem and _he’s_ the one Dean’s pretty damn used to living without. It’s the emotional backlash that he doesn’t know what the hell to do with, but ---

_Castiel_.

God, he fucking loves Cas.

“Now, get your ass back inside and _talk_ to him.”

*

Cas is anxiously pacing the kitchen when Dean lets himself back in, and that’s enough for guilt to flare up among the goddamn fusion of all his other emotions. This… this whole situation is a partial realisation of Cas’ apprehension about starting up this relationship in the first place. This isn’t exactly a freaking good time for any of them.

“You hungry?” Dean asks, voice rougher and lower than normal. “That meatloaf was kind of crappy.”

“No,” Cas says, “Dean, I just want —”

“— I know,” Dean says, “It’s okay, man, we’re okay. I …. get over here and goddamn hold me.”

Cas does, and Dean sinks into his touch and buries his face into his shoulder and breathes, breathes, breathes. 

He doesn’t let go until his phone chimes with a message from his father saying that he’s booked a flight out for freaking tomorrow.

Dean puts the lobster in the freezer and retreats to their bedroom to try and attempt to get some fucking sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

The second they get to the airport, Dean’s anxiety levels skyrocket. He hates goddamn airports and aeroplanes and the thought of flying enough that the freaking announcements always make him slightly queasy, but he’d probably feel rough as hell even if they weren’t currently squinting in the direction of the arrivals board.

By Sam’s estimations, they should be walking through security within the next five minutes. Sam’s antsy cause he’s supposed to be at some work thing at three (the shitty work life boundaries clearly run in the family, because it’s _Sunday_ and his little brother should probably be spending the day hanging out with his girlfriend, but Dean can’t exactly talk) and he agreed to lunch through gritted teeth. No way is Dean doing this little meet cute without his brother, though. No fucking way. 

_Five minutes._

“Looks like their flight,” Sam says, using his gigantor stance to peer over the crowd and, oh god, oh shit, because —

It’s been like eight years since he saw him. He was twenty three when he last saw their father, and a little older than that since they last spoke. John gave him shit about wasting his time at business school — he must have been in California for a while, by then, which means that he must have ducked out of the Christmas before that — and Dean spoke his mind, for goddamn once and —

_What is John Winchester going to say about Cas?_

“I, need — bathroom,” Dean mutters, panic blossoming in his gut. He can’t do this. Not today. He needs more time. There’s already so much shit they have to cover today, he can’t squeeze coming out in too. He —- he can’t fucking do it.

After all this time, _he can’t do it._

He calls Cas from fucking toilets with his hands shaking. There’s a fifty percent chance he’s actually going to throw up, and a twenty percent change that he’s going to high-tail it out of the airport and drive to mexico just to escape this situation, and he _can’t come out to his father today._ He can’t do it.

“Cas,”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, and he’s probably stretched out across the sofa, laptop propped up on his thighs, with one sock on because the guy’s an adorable weirdo, and that’s what he normally does when Dean’s not there. He’s _there_ all soft and badass and gorgeous and Dean --- 

What the hell is he doing?

What is he _doing_?

“Dean,”

“Hey,”

“Are you at the airport?”

“I --- yep.”

“You’re panicking,”

“Pretty much,” Dean says, his throat Sam’s turkey dry, and shuts his eyes tight. “Cas, I can’t do it. I —- I need more time.”

The silence at the other end of the line is physically painful.

“Okay,” Cas says, eventually, “You want me to stay at Gabriel’s.”

“Just,” Dean says and, oh god, he is _the worst_ , “Just tonight. I --- fuck, Cas, I’m so ---”

“Dean, that’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, damnit, it’s not fine —” 

“— if that is how you feel.” 

“—- I, fuck, I don’t want it to be how I feel. I don’t —tomorrow. I just need tonight.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice firm, “Take the time you need. I will pack a bag.”

Every single instinct he has is telling him to yell _don’t leave_ , but ---

He can’t do this today. It’s way too fucking much. His head will explode. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, “Fuck. I’m so goddamn sorry and you were right and —-”

“—- Dean, I do not have the capacity to give a single fuck about the argument we had yesterday, because I am saturated with concern for you. I know that this is difficult. Call me later and we can discuss things.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I, obviously, Cas. You know that I, uh, that…”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I know. Go and rejoin Sam, Dean. I will be fine.”

“We’re gonna be okay,” Dean says, through the lump in the back of his throat, “I swear, Cas, we’re gonna be _fine_ , I just --- fuck, I need to go. I … I’ll ---”

“Yes,” Cas interjects, voice sharp and a little wounded and endlessly even, “Goodbye, Dean,” he finishes, and ends the call with a click.

Dean stares at his reflection in the mirror for a few long seconds. He’s a goddamn mess and he _knows_ his making a fucking mistake, but…. But he _can’t_ just walk up to his goddamn father and declare that he’s going to marry a dude next month without a little build up. 

His Dad called for the first time _yesterday_ for fuck’s sake, and now he’s probably already butting heads with Sam at the arrivals gate and ---

He needs _time_. Just one day. One day to get used to the idea, and then everything will go back to normal.

Dean splashes cold water on his face and forces himself to face the goddamn music.

*

“So,” John Winchester says into the god awful silence that’s taking up most of the lunch table. Sam looks like he’s stewing in anger and just barely holding back the desire to speak his damn mind, and Dean doesn’t really know what the hell he wants to say. Their dad looks good. A helluva lot better than he looked before he disappeared, that’s for damn sure, and he doesn’t know whether he’s happy or pissed about that. It’s been eight goddamn years. Eight. It’s been _eight years_ and their Dad is doing a damn good impression of pretending like it’s been a month or two.

And, right now, Cas is probably packing a bag into his shitty car.

_What the hell is he doing?_

“You’re still workin’ at a restaurant,” 

“Pretty much,” Dean says, poking at the ice in his soda with his straw. It felt like starting to drink right this exact second would be a terrible freaking idea, but sitting across from his Dad with a damn coke makes him feel about twelve years old. The weird detachment from the conversation is pretty reminiscent of his own Dad-directed pre-pubescent angst, before he sucked it up and dealt with the fact that his life sucked. He saved the moody couldn’t-give-a-damn attitude for school and every other adult he came across from then until he left school, but right now it feels like it’s settled over him again. Normally, he’d probably be bothered by the way that John Winchester casually frames the sentence like it’s an insult, or the faux-causal small talk after eight goddamn years of radio silence, but he’s too busy thinking about Cas.

Dean’s a freaking idiot.

“It’s Dean’s restaurant,” Sam puts in, vehemently, “He _runs_ the restaurant.”

“Sam,” Dean says, waving this away. 

“Well,” John says, “Is it?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, dragging his gaze up to meet his. He wants to call his fucking fiancée . He wants to actually verbalise that it doesn’t really matter what his Dad says about their relationship, because his priority is _Castiel_ , because all that he’s been thinking about since they sat down to eat is that he never actually _said_ that. Not to Cas, anyway. He said it to _Bobby_ and he said it to Charlie (via text this morning), but he didn’t say it to the _one person who probably needed to hear it_. 

“Well, guess that businesses cause wasn’t a waste of time, then,” John says, which is probably meant as something like a compliment. “And you’re working at some law firm?”

“I’m an associate,” Sam says, voice clipped.

Dean takes another sip of his soda through his damn straw (and, what is he, twelve?) and wonders if it would make it better or worse if he disappeared to the toilets to ring Cas again.

“And you two don’t live together anymore?” Their Dad asks. There’s some judgement packed in there, too. Dean’s pretty sure he always thought Dean moving across the country to move in with his little brother was basically pathetic. 

“I live with Jess,” Sam says, “And Dean lives with Cas.”

Dean’s stomach plummets like it’s been thrown into the grand canyon and, _right_ , that’s why he needs more time. _That’s why_ Cas has packed a bag and freaking left for a few days and that’s why he offered to the in the first place, because even _thinking_ about the concept of his father having an opinion about Castiel makes his throat tighten with panic.

“He’s,” Dean begins, swallowing around the lie, “Out of town. Family emergency.”

Sam gapes at him. Dean shakes his head and narrows his eyes in his brother’s direction to tell him to _be fucking cool_ and Dean resolutely does not look at Bobby, because he cannot deal with that gruff mixture of sympathy and disappointment. 

“And Jess is your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” Sam says, making a gesture in Dean’s direction that roughly translates to _what the fuck are you doing?_ And —-

This whole thing is a fucking joke. 

It’s _too much_ and he’s done with this small talk. 

“Where the hell have you been, Dad?” Dean asks, setting down his fucking coke and meeting his gaze head on. He’s not skirting round some inane conversation while silently trying to communicate with Sam that he’s _temporarily_ back in the damn closet until further notice (it’s a mark of how little Sam ever understood about how hard all of this shit is that meant Sam didn’t even consider it in the first place. Straight people are wild). He’s not playing this game. He’s not a damn kid and he doesn’t have to put up with this crap.

“Minnesota,”

“Okay, fucking awesome,” Dean says, curt, “Why?”

“I need to make a call,” He says, standing up and heading for the door. Dean watches his father’s squared shoulders as he spills outside and presses his phone to his ear. 

“Great,” Sam bites out, storming to the toilets most likely for somewhere to go that isn’t right here. 

“Well,” Bobby says, as the waitress brings over their food to their half empty table. “This is nice.”

*

He hasn’t asked any more questions since lunch (the rest of which was interspersed by Bobby trying to make small talk about the goddamn weather and the rest of them glaring into their plates or their phones and not looking at each other), and the awkward spaces in their conversation are made six hundred times worse by John Winchester suddenly being in the apartment he’s shared with Cas for the past eighteen months of his life. 

Dean heads for the coffee pot and tries not to read into his Dad stepping round the edges of his apartment and taking the space in. It’s too damn weird to have him pausing at the foot of the couch and assessing the placement of his coffee table, the picture of Sam’s various graduations lined up on the wall, and —-

Cas has taken the picture of them from that night they got engaged off the fridge. Usually it’s nestled between Mary Winchester and a photo of Sam, Dean and Bobby. Charlie insisted on taking it at that fancy pants restaurant (delicious food with way too small portions) and they look good. Happy. Some of Cas’ other pictures are gone, too; one of him and Anna, a cramped Christmas picture with every single one of his brothers, Gabriel’s shit eating grin as he opened up his cafe. 

His laptop isn’t in the middle of the floor at the exact place Dean’s most likely to trip the hell over it. His freaking ridiculous vegan milk crap isn’t in the fridge. There’s no newspaper(s) on the counter. 

He’s _de-Castieled_ the place, and it’s fucking terrible.

_What the hell is he doing?_

Two goddamn evenings ago he had Cas tapping away on his laptop halfway into the night (for all the ways that they really work well together, they sure as shit don’t have compatible sleep schedules) as Dean mentally planned out the exact way he was going to cook the surprise lobster. Now… now it’s weirdly like Cas never _lived here_.

Dean types out a frantic _where are you?_ by text after he’s fumbled through making coffee because —-

He needs to see him, and they need to talk. They haven’t really talked since he got the phone call. Not really. They argued, but they didn’t actually _talk_.

“Nice place,” His Dad grunts as Dean passes him the coffee. It’s probably the first thing he’s vocalised in the past fifteen minutes, and it’s about the level of inane he’d expect. “You been here long?”

“Couple of months short of two years,” Dean says, throat dry.

“And Sam’s place is close?”

“Five minutes in that direction,” Dean says, “I —- gotta. Laundry,” Dean says vaguely, desperately, before he shuts himself in his bedroom and sucks in a deep, steadying breath. This whole day is a total shitshow. Everything about this just straight up _sucks_. 

John Winchester has been in Minnesota, whatever that means.

And — 

Castiel’s pictures are on their bedside table, which is something at least. Cas hasn’t answered his text yet, but the rejects from his ‘no-homo’ sweep are still in their bedroom. Dean sits down on the edge of their bed and focuses on breathing slow and steady.

_Hey Dad, the Cas who lives here is my partner. Like, my totally freaking male romantic life-partner. We’re getting married in like a month. Jury’s out on whether I wanna invite you. I like dick and I don’t really give a damn what you think about that, except for the part where I do._

Fuck.

Fuck this _whole thing_.

Bobby quirks an eyebrow at him in concern when he re-enters the room ten or so minutes later feeling a little calmer. John freaking Winchester has a beer wedged between his knees with some dumb cop show playing on the TV and Dean’s pretty sure he would rather be freaking _anywhere_ than right here. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he _wants_. He doesn’t know how likely it is for him to actually _get_ what he wants, once he’s worked this out, and he feels a low level guilt for not being freaking thrilled that his Dad is okay. He’s pissed off and he _is_ relieved, but it’s complicated and convoluted and messed up.

_What the hell have you been doing, Dad? Why are you here? The fuck you wanna tell us? And by the way, I’m in a really freaking serious homosexual relationship. Good times_. 

Cas replies before their Dad says anything beyond commentary on the TV show and ---

He’s at Sam’s. 

He’s at Sam’s, and Dean really, really wants to goddamn see him.

“You okay, boy?” Bobby asks, forehead creased.

“I —- gotta. Gotta go. SOS from the restaurant, be back in , uh, an hour or whatever,” Dean mutters, grabbing his jacket and his car keys with a lump in the back of his throat. 

_Castiel._

*

Cas is chopping fucking tofu up in Sam’s kitchen, and there is so many damn things wrong with that then Dean doesn’t even know where to start.

“Tofu, seriously?”

“If I’m staying here, I can contribute to the cooking.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “For a start, you can’t cook something that ain’t food, and tofu is _not_ food, and second of all, it’s gonna suck even worse if you do it like that. You gotta get as much water out of it as possible to make even _close_ to edible.”

“I’m glad that we’re discussing the important matter at hand,” Cas says, as Dean nudges him out the way to try and salvage the freaking tofu. 

Dean exhales. He deserves that. 

“Thought you were going to Gabriel’s.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, as Dean puts the block of vegan health nut crap between two chopping boards and grabbing the heaviest book in Sam’s damn kitchen (one of Jess’ chemistry text books) to sit on top, “But Gabriel is an imbecile, and considerably less sensitive than your brother, who happens to be a very good friend. If me being here makes you uncomfortable —”

“— no,” Dean says, “No, it’s actually pretty fucking awesome that you’re such good bosom buddies with my brother, I just…” Dean trails off.

“Dean,”

“What’s the plan with this? Some honey soy marinade thing,” Dean says, gesturing at the bottles out on the side. 

“Yes, that’s what Jess indicated.” Castiel says, “I don’t know much about your father. Most of what you’ve said about your relationship has been implicit.”

“Don’t know much about your dad either.” 

“Well, if my Dad shows up I am sure we will discuss him,” Cas says, as Dean cuts dices the ginger root set aside for the marinade, “Is he likely to have a negative view on your sexuality?”

“I,” Dean begins, thinking of his damn father sat on the sofa in his apartment, “Don’t have a fucking clue.”

“He never voiced an opinion?”

“Nope,” Dean says, “He —- guess he’s ex-marine, big on us being _men_ and that shit. Beer and whisky, slept with a gun under his pillow ever since my Mom died. Don’t know if he ever voted for anything in his damn life. I… I can see it going either way, but…” Dean cuts the ginger into smaller pieces still, “Bottom of the line, it doesn’t matter, whatever the hell he says. I’d rather have you.”

_Cas is his priority._

“His opinion still matters to you.”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “It’s probably always gonna goddamn matter, but it doesn’t --- it doesn’t matter as much as _your_ opinion, Cas, you gotta…. You gotta understand that.”

“I do,” Cas says, steadily, “What are you afraid of?

And that’s the damn question. 

What is he afraid of? 

“I, fuck,” Dean says, “It’s —the thing about Dad is… I said to Bobby that he was disappointed in me, but…” Dean sets down the knife and the chopping board and turns around to face him. This is probably the kind of conversation that means he shouldn’t be holding a knife and probably the kind of conversation where I should be looking Cas in the eye. 

Cas has always had remarkable patience for teasing out Dean’s internal bull crap (ignoring their brief relationship hiatus). 

“Most of the time, it felt like he didn’t see me enough to have a freaking opinion. When he said crap about me cooking it wasn’t —- he didn’t mean for it to be malicious, it wasn’t… it wasn’t like he was trying to be an asshole, that’s just what he thought. He _thought_ cooking was a waste of time and didn’t really ever know that I loved it. That wasn’t on his radar. And, when I dropped out of school, he didn’t really have an opinion about it at all, he —- as long as I looked after Sam and made sure shit got done, he didn’t really give a damn what the hell else I did. With Sam, it was different, cause they’ve always butted heads. With Sam, he had goddamn opinions, and Sam never did a damn thing right — he talked back, made big plans, applied for college, and that wound Dad up, so I’d spend this time tryin’ to —- I don’t know, please him, fall in line, but he never _saw it,_ and I think —- pretty damn sure that he thought it was weakness, anyway, that even though he got pissed at Sam, he was proud of him for having a backbone and sticking to his guns. And —- that’s where I was a fucking disappointment, cause maybe I was a damn sight more convenient, but John Winchester’s never been convenient in his life, and …. And I guess that —- fuck, Cas, I don’t even know how I want him to react. If he kicked off, at least… at least he’d treat me like my own fucking person. Not expecting a gruff Bobby style _I’m proud of you_ and I don’t even think I want it. Pretty sure if he started spouting that kind of crap at this stage in the game it’d just piss me off. “

Cas tilts his head at him.

“It’s a bit fucking late for him to start trying be a father now.” 

“But,” Cas says, “You want a relationship with him.”

“Maybe,” Dean says, mouth dry, “Maybe not. Want to know what the hell he has to say to us. Want to know what _happened._ Just…. This is a lot.”

“That seems accurate,” Cas says, stepping across Sam’s kitchen and tilting his head, “I’m not mad at you.”

“Just disappointed?”

“Neither,” Cas says, “I am concerned.”

“Yeah, I’m damned concerning.”

“And very endearing,”

“It’s my perky nipples and my give em’ hell attitude,” Dean says, “Fuck.”

“Maybe after your father has left,” Cas says, closing the rest of the gap to smooth his hands over his shoulders and offer him a weak smile. “And then you can cook me my lobster.”

“Damned straight.”

“Where does your father think you are?”

“The restaurant,” Dean mutters, pinching his forehead, “You reckon Sam has room for me too?”

“Go home, Dean,” Cas says, gently, “Call me tonight.”

“Roger that.” Dean says, and then he holds him until Jess inadvertently interrupts them to get a cup of coffee, and then they kiss outside Sam’s front door until he returns home to deal with his crap. 

* 

“How’s the restaurant?” His Dad asks as Dean steps back into his apartment. He feels more settled after talking about at least some of this with Cas, but it still doesn’t sit well that he’s not _freaking here_. It doesn’t sit well with him that his brother and his goddamn fiancée are going to be eating marinated tofu for dinner, either, but apparently that’s none of business (but he’s a hundred percent going to fill Sam’s fridge with real food as soon as this whole drama-fest is over).

“Peachy,” Dean says, “You settled in okay?”

“Yep,” Bobby says, “We tossed a coin for who sleeps on the sofa.”

“Good times,”

“We’re gonna order pizza,” John says, eyeing him over his beer, “Unless you’re gonna cook.”

There’s something in his tone that sounds like a challenge, and Dean absolutely does not have the energy to deal with it right now. Or to cook. Like Cas has always written in his blog, cooking is _personal_. It’s vulnerability and love and care on a plate, and he’s not sure he really feels like offering that to his father right now. 

“Ah, nope. Nothing in.”

“Pretty unusual for a cook,”

“Not really,” Dean says, “Spend most of my life in a freakin’ kitchen, so…”

“Speaking of,” Bobby says, “Assumin’ you gotta put some hours in tomorrow?”

“Right,” Dean says, “Yeah. I’ve liaised with Charlie. Gonna do the morning shift. Should be free when lunch service starts to ease off. From about two.”

“All right then,” John Winchester says, sharp, “We’ll talk tomorrow evening.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, clenching his jaw and pulling one of the chairs towards the TV. 

* 

Of course, Cas shows up at the restaurant near the end of his shift. 

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, looking disheveled and fucking incredible as per. One day, Dean’s gonna get over how goddamn hot he is, but it probably won’t be anytime soon. He’s freaking cute, too, clutching two coffees from Gabriel’s place very carefully, “I bought you coffee. It has a latte art penis on it.” 

Dean blinks at him for a few long seconds before Cas peels off the lid and presses it into his hand and, yep, there’s a crudely drawn out dick on his coffee.

“I made it myself.” 

“You are such a fucking weirdo,” Dean says, face breaking out into a smile all by accident. “I — how did you transport it here without messing it up?”

“I drove exceptionally slowly. I was yelled at a lot. I — I thought it might make you smile,” Cas says, and goddamn, his fiancée is the shit.

“You are goddamn adorable,” Dean mutters.

“It has been said,” Cas acknowledges, taking a seat at one of Dean’s empty tables for two.

“We can go to my office.”

“Your office is terrible,” Cas says, “Sit, Dean.”

“You know it’s kind of a dick move to bring outside drinks into my establishment and drink ‘em in front of my customers.” 

“Well, you don’t have genitalia coffee on the menu.” 

“Don’t have popcorn, either, don’t mean you can bring it into my joint.” 

“Dean, are you okay?”

“I,” Dean says, swallows. “Been better.” 

“I love you,” Castiel says, very seriously.

“How are _you?_ You’re the one who's been thrown out your own home and had your worst freaking nightmare happen.” 

“Your dad turning up isn’t my worst nightmare,” 

“Not exactly your idea of heaven.” 

“There is a vast difference between my worst nightmare and my idea of heaven; this falls very squarely in that category.”

“Love you too,” Dean says, throat twisting a around the words a little. Of all the shit that doesn’t come easily, prizing out _those_ words still take effort. They feel like they cost something, even though they’re obviously freaking true. Cas knows. He’s said adjacent words all the damn time, but I love you is …. complicated. It’s come out of his mouth in that form a handful of times.

Cas leans forward and kisses him, slow and lovely, a hand curled under his jaw. 

“I love you too, Dean Winchester.” 

“Pretty sure that’s what I goddamn said,” Dean says, allowing Cas to pull him in for another kiss. He’s got no goddamn idea why he ever pretended this was something he didn’t want: why he ever thought he had the capacity to give it up. 

“I know,” Cas says. 

“Don’t freaking Han Solo me,” 

“I would never dream of it.”

“And thanks for my dick coffee,” Dean says, as he settles closer. “I gotta get back to work. you wanna hang around here?”

“That depends.” 

“I’m gonna talk to him today.”

“It doesn’t depend on that,” Cas says, “It depends on how long it is until this table is booked, and what today’s special is.”

“Special is whatever you wanna be, Sweetheart,” Dean winks, “And the chef table’s yours, always.”

“Ever the romantic,” Castiel says, leaning forward to kiss him once more before Dean stands up and —-

Cas bought him a freaking penis topped latte and drove it halfway across town at snail pace because it thought it might Dean smile. Cas bought him approximately a dozen pair of panties in a flustered frenzy about how deep his damn feelings were. Cas forgave him for the face on the menu incident, proposed over the phone then hung up, and writes in his blog and his column about their relationship all the damn time. Next week, Dean’s scheduled in for some weird pre-nuptial interview with one of the deputy editors of Cas’ sight to talk about “food, fiancées and fellowships”. Cas vlogs cooking the Queer Eye recipie for guacamole and considers Dean squeezing him at the restaurant to be a romantic gesture. Cas is absurd and gorgeous and wonderful, and _that_ is the important thing in all of this.

Screw it. Screw all of it.

“I’m gonna text him right now.”

“Dean,” Cas says, eyebrows raising, “You —- are you sure you want to come out to your father by text?” 

“Why the hell not,” Dean says, a reckless energy flooding through his veins, because, fuck. What does it matter. It’s already a mess. He’s got no real reason to believe that John Winchester will offer him anything but vague disappointment and that’s not exactly a new feeling. If he kicks off, then at least it’s not hanging over his damn head anymore. At least he can drag Cas back home and not spend another shitty night staring at the empty side of the bed knowing that it’s all his fault. “I just —- I want it done. It’s better if I don’t have to look at him and I —- can’t chicken out or freaking spill anything.” Dean says, thumbing over the keyboard on his phone.

_Cas is heading back here tonight. Just so you know, he’s my partner & we’ve been together for a while. _ It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough. It’s freaking _something_ and then he’ll be able to breathe again... and, honestly, he doesn’t give a crap if he does this eloquently, he just doesn’t wants it _done_.

“Dean,” Cas says, stopping him before he can send the damn text with a hand on his cheek. “You are an _exceptional_ human and excellent cook.”

“Thanks,” Dean snorts, pulling back, and --- 

And then Dean looks up and sees John goddamn Winchester in the doorway of his restaurant, and accidentally knocks his dick latte all over Castiel’s crotch. 


	3. Chapter 3

The silence is _fucking deafening._

And then —- 

“So I’m guessing this is your roommate,” John says, with some unfathomable edge to his voice that could be amusement or anger, and Dean doesn’t know, and, fuck, it would be just fucking awesome if he could out himself at least once without it involving him spilling something, or public humiliation in his own restaurant. “Cast-something.” 

“Castiel,” Cas says, standing up as if he isn’t covered in goddamn latte, “John Winchester,” He says, very seriously, and then —- 

And then his fiancé and his goddamn father are having some kind of staring competition in Dean’s freaking restaurant. 

“I —- what,” Dean begins, chokes on the word when everyone starts looking the hell at him, “What are you doing here?” 

“Bobby thought it might be an idea for me to see this burger place of yours, given how hard you work at it.” John says, gaze shifting back to Cas. Bobby is trying to send him an apologetic look over his shoulder, but it’s not Bobby’s fucking fault. How was he to know Cas was going to be here? As far as Bobby knew, the family emergency shit he spouted might not have been absolute bull crap (although Bobby knows him far better than that; it’s Cas that’s the damn wildcard, here). Either way, that’s Bobby’s attempt at getting John to show some kind of interest in the content of their lives, and it would be really goddamn nice of him if his Dad hadn’t just walked in while Cas was touching his face.

Cas was _touching his face_. 

Dean flushes and tries not to swallow his tongue. 

“So, uh —” 

And then Sam turns up. 

“Uh, hey —- Cas.” He says, gaze flicking between them all. Sam clearly didn’t get the memo that Dean hadn’t been given a damn memo about them showing up at Dean’s restaurant, because he looks pretty taken aback by the whole thing.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas says, pleasantly. 

“Bobby said I should try your food. Told him I’ve been eatin’ it since you were sixteen.” 

“I thought that Dean was around eleven when you first started cooking,” Cas says, evenly. There’s coffee dripping down his goddamn slacks. It looks a little like he’s wet himself, and now they’re staring again, and Dean’s going to have a damn heart attack. 

“And are you a chef too, Castiel?” 

“I’m a food critic.” 

“Uhuh,” John says, “You give my son a good review when you first met?” 

“Not particularly, no,” Cas says. 

“Really.” 

“I call things as I see them,” Cas says, “Obviously, my opinion has since improved.” 

“Obviously.” 

Dean doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s happening. 

“Um, Cas,” Sam says, arching an eyebrow at his trousers, “What’s —?”

“There was a coffee incident,” Cas says, not breaking eye contact with John Winchester.

_Fuck._

“Um, hey,” Charlie says, appearing from the back office with her old server name tag, her voice slightly higher pitched than normal. “Do you guys need a table?” 

“Yes,” John says, without looking away from Cas. 

“We’re—- we’re full,” Dean says, which is actually accurate. Maybe he can squeeze Cas into a table for two, but they sure as hell don’t have a table for five available and, also, Dean’s heart can’t take a whole freaking mealtime. 

“I’m sure you can fit us in,” John says.

“John,” Bobby says, which has exactly zero affect. 

“Dean has a waiting list for a table, Dad. Right, Charlie?” 

“Technically true,” Charlie says, glancing between them nervously, “but, um, this couple left way early — I mean, pretty sure they full on split up before the starters arrived — and a party of two cancelled, sooo…” 

Damn Charlie for being good at her job. 

Four pairs of eyes are waiting for him to say something. 

“I — okay,” Dean says, his heart pounding triple time as Cas tries to give him a reassuring smile that Dean can fucking tell John has clocked. “Okay, but —- I’ve only got forty minutes before I’ve gotta get back to work.”

“You said you’d finish at three,” 

“Don’t exactly work to a schedule,” Dean says, “It’s a business.”

“And your…. _roommate_ is okay with that?” 

Fuck. 

_Fuck_. 

“So Cas,” Charlie says, falsely brightly, “Cas. Do you —- Dean keeps a spare pair of jeans in his office if you wanted to, um, change?”

Because _exactly_ what Dean needs right now is Cas wandering around in his fucking jeans. 

Cas glances at him and —-

— Dean nods. He’s not altogether sure his throat is working.

Charlie leads them to a table in a nervous silence. Sam tries to catch his eye to communicate _something_ supportive and damn annoying, and Dean takes the nearest seat to the door and inspects the freaking place settings.

And — 

John Winchester skims through the menu like it’s the obituary page of the paper, and something twists painfully in Dean’s chest. He worked so damn hard on that menu. On this _place._ He spent two full days annotating the last menu while Cas used his lap as a foot rest before he even started cooking, because there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let it get convoluted and messed up again. He sat with Charlie and hashed out the numbers and the margins, tweaking the price of side salads and sodas, and he made six different kinds of ketchup before he settled on the one he liked. The names of every single dish is sentimental and fucking important, from the third date garlic bread that’s so popular he can’t take it off the menu, to the most recent culinary ode to Castiel. This shit is important, and his dad just… he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see it.

He’s never _seen it._ It’s never, not once, showed up on his radar. 

“Your _roommate_ seems like a bit of cold fish,” John comments, as the tension in Dean’s spine ricochets. He’s pretty fucking sure that his Dad saw them sitting too close (and the face touching!!) to plead heterosexuality, but he’s got no idea what to do with _that._

Is it a warning to stay in the damn closet? Is he making fun of him? Is he genuinely fucking oblivious?

“Cas takes a little time to defrost,” Dean says, shoulders squared with tension, “But, uh — he’s, uh, good. A good guy.”

“Mmhmm,” He says, as everyone at the damn table looks at him. Even without the goddamn face touching (the fucking _face touching_ ), the flushing flailing mess that is his response to this situation would probably give it all away. “You lived together long?”

Fuck _this_. 

“‘Bout eighteen months,” Dean says, mouth dry as Charlie comes back over to take their drinks order. He just barely resists ordering an entire bottle of whisky, and settles on beer and a pleading look in Charlie’s direction.

“Charlie’s my business partner,” Dean says, “My front of house queen.”

“And provider of jeans.”

“Uh , sure,” Dean days, glancing up as Cas comes back towards him and slides into the seat next to him. “Better?”

“Yes, generally when given the option of coffee in my underwear or not, I choose not,” Cas says, “What have I missed?”

“Ordered you a beer,” Dean says, “That’s about it.” 

“Ah. Good to see you, Bobby,” Cas says, as casual as freaking everything. “How’s Jody?”

“None of your damn business, that’s how,” Bobby grouses, “And I suppose you’ll be reviewing this conversation in your damn paper.”

“Ah, I’m not sure the Sioux Fall gossip will be attention grabbing enough to make it into my column, but I will let you know if there is an exceptionally dry month.”

“Assbut,”

“So,” John says, “You two’ve met.” 

“Coupla’ times,” 

“We did Christmas here last year,” Sam says.

“You didn’t want to spend it with your family, Castiel?”

“Didn’t you?” Sam asks, which is probably not how Dean dreamed of Sam defending him in this exact situation. 

“All right, ladies, handbags away,” Bobby says, “Let’s just eat.”

“I thought the big idea was that he _wanted_ to talk,”

“Some things need some working up to,”

Dean looks as his cutlery and tries not to choke on his internalised homophobia, or whatever the fuck it is that makes it so hard. Daddy issues. Identity issues. Masculinity issues.

“You… you all ready to order? Charlie asks, hovering behind Sam’s shoulder and somehow managing to make it all more goddamn awkward. 

John Winchester goes last. He hasn’t looked at the fucking menu since Cas got back. 

“I’ll get the chicken.” 

“Your son named a dish after you on his menu,” Cas says, before Charlie can take away the menus. “Despite your extended absence, your son has honoured you in his place of his business, and you are not ordering that dish?” 

“Had beef at lunch,” 

“I am sure you can tolerate eating the same protein twice in order to support your son.” 

Dean wants to say _drop it_ but he’s also not all that sure that he wants him too.

“Alright,” John says, assessing him over the menu, “I’ll get John’s choice.”

“Good,” Cas says, folding his own and offering Charlie a shockingly polite smile. “Thank you.”

“Cas,” Dean starts, even though he doesn’t know what to freaking say, as their knees bump under the table. He feels like his Dad must know, but —-

“So, _Cas,_ huh?”

“That is the shortened version of my name, yes.”

“You prefer Castiel or Cas?” 

“That depends,” Cas says, “I don’t mind Cas from people that I like.”

“You’re mighty protective for a roommate,” John says, an edge to his voice that _absolutely_ means he knows. He saw the face touching. The pointed questions. The fact that he keeps saying the word _roommate_ over and over. 

Fuck _this._

“No one used that word except you, Dad,” Dean says, chest hammering, but…. he’d written the text out on his phone already, even if he hadn’t send it. He’s not ready, exactly, but he’s sure as hell ready to be done worrying about it. “You’ve made your point. If you’ve got some kind of problem —-“

“I don’t give a damn what you do in your spare time, Dean. Didn’t give a damn when you were twenty, and I sure as hell don’t give a damn now.” 

Dean stares at him. 

And that’s…

_That’s goddamn bullshit._

He doesn’t give a damn that he apparently knew (and hey, character progression, the news that his bisexual is showing actually doesn’t bother him), but he sure as hell gives a damn that he’s dismissing it. Bobby knew, and he gave Dean his moment. Coaxed it out off with gruff preemptive assurances that it was okay, not this crap. Bobby knew that saying it out loud was important in and of itself, not just if was new information. This couldn’t care less crap stinks, and he’s not doing it.

He’s not a doormat. He hasn’t been a doormat for a long damn time. 

“Okay, let’s get one thing goddamn straight, here,” Dean says, “Scratch that, let’s get a lot of things fucking straight. First of all, cooking ain’t some dumb hobby, it is my _career_ and I am damn good at it. People’s paychecks _rely on me being damn good at it._ Moving to California wasn’t abandoning my goddamn family — unlike dropping off the face of the earth for eight years — and moving in with Sam wasn’t me being a freaking coward, it was doing something good for me. And last of fucking all, my _sexuality_ ain’t something I do in my spare time, and my relationship with Cas ain’t some trivial thing that you get to walk in here and dismiss. We’re getting goddman married and if you’re planning on sticking around here, you’ve gotta play nice.” 

John Winchester raises his eyebrow, and Dean’s fucking heart stops. He just _said all of that_. The words came out of his mouth, and he meant them, and he came out, and he _stoop up for himself_. 

The John-Cas staring match resumes, and —-

“I will if he will,” John says.

“Nice to meet you,” Cas says, holding out a hand to shake like butter wouldn’t melt. John takes it like he’s concerned Cas is gonna rip his damn arm off and Dean can live with that. He’d rather John thought of Cas as a force to be reckoned with than some kind of joke. 

_And, Dean Winchester is out. All the way out._

Charlie brings their food in the uneasy silence that follows, and a weird sense of absolute calm begins to flood through his veins: he’s out, completely and absolutely, to every single person who’s opinion matters to him. 

_I will if he will._

“Well, congratulations,” John says, not picking up his cutlery, “Although you’re kind of stealing my thunder.”

“What?” Sam asks, “You’re getting married? That’s what this is about?”

“What about mom?” Dean asks on reflex. 

“Aren’t you a little old to still have mommy issues?” John drawls, turning to look at him with that _stare_ that Dean was treated to through half of his damn childhood. Another wave of something bubbles up in his throat; anger, bitterness, freaking disappointment. And --- 

John Winchester is getting freaking married. He’s getting _married_ and he’s still a goddamn asshole. 

“I was four and I heard her stop screaming as the fire killed her, so no,” Dean says, bluntly.

“You’ve changed your ketchup,” Cas says, through the thick, claggy silence that follows Dean’s outburst. Dean blinks. “There’s a different aftertaste to it,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes slightly, “Did you change the seasoning?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, arching an eyebrow. The distraction is weirdly perfect and odd and _so_ freaking Cas. “Couple of weeks back.”

“You didn’t say you were doing that,” Cas says, taking another ketchup dipped french fry and eating it slowly. “You worked that Sunday I had to visit Anna.” 

“Dude,” Dean says, “What are you, Sherlock? I got bored, I changed my ketchup recipe.”

“Smoked paprika?”

“For someone who can’t cook for shit, you’ve got a damn good pallet.” 

“Oral fixation,” Cas says, completely fucking seriously, but there’s a glint in his eye as he says it. There’s a lot that can be said about his freaking fiancée, but he can certainly break a damn silence. “It’s good. Very good.”

“Thanks,” Dean shrugs, shaking a little of the tension out of his shoulders.

“You’re getting married,” Cas continues to John Winchester, like their little deviation didn’t just happen. “Tell us about the lucky woman, presuming of course that it is a woman.”

John looks like he knows what the hell to do with him. Bobby was the same when they first met, but at least they were both doing an impression of being polite to each other. He may not have understood where the hell Cas came out with this stuff from, but at least he didn’t stare at him like Cas is issuing some kind of personal challenge. Now, Bobby will huff and grouch at Cas just like the rest of them, but —- 

He pulls out his wallet and sets a picture down on the table. 

“Kate,” His father says.

Sam takes the picture and freaking studies it and —-

_John Winchester is getting married?_

That’s what this is about. A fucking wedding. It doesn’t feel great. It does feel like he’s betraying Mary, but logically Dean gets that’s not exactly fair, and… a wedding, he can deal with that. It’s not the reason he’d have picked for him showing up, but it could definitely be worse.

Sam, however, looks like he’s about to lose his shit. He’s crossed over from his loud, snappy anger to the deadly still and cutting kind of rage, and Dean’s got no idea _why_. Sam’s always been less… fixated on their mom. He never _knew_ her, so he always gave John less allowances for his bitterness and his issues. His grief was more abscence than loss: out of the two of them, Dean would have put money on him being less likely to have an issue with John remarrying. 

“He’s, what, fourteen?” Sam asks, voice ice cold. 

“Twenty one, now.” 

“And you’ve known about this since _when_?” Sam asks, and Dean has no freaking idea what’s happening, “How long?”

“‘Bout eighteen years,”

“Does he know about us?” 

“Sam,” 

“Does he know about us?” 

“Yes,” 

“And he didn’t want to meet us?” Sam asks, “He didn’t want to _know us_?”

“Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Look,” Sam says, and pushes the photo in his direction. It takes a minute to work out what he’s looking at. It’s the kind of family picture that other people have: they’re at a football match, the kid is wearing a football jersey, the woman’s smiling widely, and their dad has been transplanted into the picture. He’s smiling, too. It’s suburban and downright ordinary, and it takes a little too long for the cogs to turn because it’s so fucking bizarre, and then -- 

_Eighteen years._

“So why, Dad, did our brother not want to meet us?”

Bobby lets out a whistle between his teeth, which means at least some of this shit show is a surprise to him too. 

_They have a brother._ He looks a little like Sammy did when he was still a teenager, but the square of the jaw is all John. They —- have a goddamn brother. 

“By the time he asked about it, we weren’t in contact,”

“Don’t say that like it’s something that happened,” Dean says, grip shaking on this damn picture. _John took this kid a football match. A fucking football match._ “We didn’t fall out of contact, you cut us out.”

Dean worked three jobs at seventeen to pay for the goddamn rent, and _this kid got to go to football matches with his father._

Dean was dragged round America in the back of a car and this kid, this other kid, got a mom and a dad that took him to football matches. 

“You told him we weren’t interested?” Sam says, “You told this kid his _family_ didn’t want anything to do with him.”

“So, what? You just showed up eight years ago, out of the damn blue, playing a damn father figure after not being there for the rest of his life and she just welcomed you in with open arms?” Dean asks, thumb running over the edge of the picture. He’s not sure if he’s gonna punch him in the face or cry, because, because —- 

_They have a brother, and their dad choose him._

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean,” John says, raising his voice. 

“You —- that’s where you disappeared too,” Dean says, “When you used to take off and goddamn leave us, you were with your other family.”

“Kate knew I had other responsibilities,”

“And what were they?” Dean asks, voice raising, adrenaline picking up again, “Because it sure as shit didn’t feel like you were responsible for crap.”

“So that’s where you’ve been,” Sam says, “With Kate and your other kid, in Minnesota.” 

Minnesota. Kate. Dean squints at the woman in the picture, and —

“She —— she was _a damn nurse._ ” Dean says, “Sammy broke his leg when you were who the fuck knows where, and you _had a kid with the nurse?_ ” 

Dean was supposed to be watching him, and Sammy fell out of a tree, and he remembers John white faced with anger as the went to the hospital. The nurse, Kate, was nice to him. She bought him a goddamn hot chocolate. 

_His dad freaking had a kid with her._

He can’t remember them even having a conversation, but most of that memory is Sam in pain seared over his memory and his Dad being pissed off at Dean for not stopping him getting hurt. Clearly, they _did_ have a conversation at some goddamn point. 

“Eight years back, Kate called and said enough was enough, that Adam was getting into trouble and he needed a father figure around full time,” John says, voice getting louder to talk over him. 

Adam. They have a kid brother called _Adam._

“A full time father figure, huh. Sounds like a goddamn treat.” 

“They were saying he wouldn’t finish high school.”

“ _I_ didn't finish high school, jackass,” Dean says, “You didn’t seem to give a crap about _that._ ”

“Doesn’t seem to have harmed you,” He says, curt. 

“I am successful _in spite_ of you,” Dean spits out, “Sammy is successful _in spite_ of you.”

“Watch your mouth,” John says, eyes flashing, “I’m still your father.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “You got a picture of us in your wallet, Dad ?” 

“I left because you made it pretty clear you didn’t need me anymore,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Because _relying_ on you was a conveyor belt of massive disappointments, Dad, because it was pretty clear that we had to sort it out on our own. I —- You know what,” Dean says, “I thought it was pretty fucking dramatic when you did it Cas, but right now it feels appropriate. I’m walking out of my own damn restaurant. Enjoy your goddamn burger.”

And then he walks the hell out before his father eats a single bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guysss!! Sorry for the super long wait. In my head, this was going to be a short wait, but then life happened. This was also supposed to be a much longer chapter, but I decided that we should continue with zee drama and end here. More SOON.
> 
> Also --- I am SO sorry that I am hideously behind on responding to your comments. Life got crazy and difficult and I got very behind. Please don't think that I don't love and appreciate all of them though. They make me super happy : )


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